


cold hands, warm heart

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am king of this bed," Hank grumbles, pressing up against Marc's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold hands, warm heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hlundqvists](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlundqvists/gifts).



> because pasha wanted domestic fluff! and i adore her!!

Hank wakes up to a cold hand against his ribs and an even colder foot between his ankles. The hand stretches, pinky to thumb, over most of his side, chilling his skin.

"Muh," Hank manages, squirming and trying to swat at the wrist attached to that _freezing_ hand. "G'way."

The response is a low laugh and a second foot joining the first. "Mmno."

Marc is a jerk, Hank decides, making a grumbly noise even as he shifts closer and rubs Marc's feet with his own. He's the worst jerk. Hank might kick him out of bed.

Might.

Maybe.

"Time's it?" he mutters, eyes still squeezed shut. He kind of has this recollection that they have an off day, but he's not entirely sure. It might not even be today yet. It might still be yesterday right now. Or tomorrow?

"Dunno," Marc replies, like the useless lump he is. "Didn't check."

"Ugh," Hank mutters, and goes back to sleep.

—-

When Hank wakes up the next time, it's to Marc breathing obnoxiously loudly and much too close to his ear.

" _Ugh_ ," Hank groans, and pushes Marc onto his other side, shushing his sleepy protestations.

"I am king of this bed," Hank says, pressing up against Marc's back.

"Nngh," Marc replies. "Whatever."

—-

The third time Hank wakes up, there's very bright sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains, and Marc is turning over in his arms. An icy hand sneaks up the back of Hank's shirt and presses flat between his shoulderblades. It's hard not to flinch, and Hank only does a middling job of it.

"Know you're awake," Marc murmurs, breath warm against Hank's cheek. "You suck at faking sleep."

"Shut up," Hank replies, opening his eyes to glare mildly at him. "You're no better."

"Yeah, I know." Marc grins. It's a dumb grin. Hank loves it.

"Ugh," he says, and leans in for a kiss that he's fully aware will taste terrible. It does, but he doesn't much care when Marc's body goes entirely pliant against him, fingers curling, eyes fluttering closed.

"Mm," Marc says, soft and content, and Hank loves him all ways, but he might love him best like this.

No - maybe not. He might love him even better when they part, and Marc gets a grin on his face like he's about to be a little shit, nose wrinkling.

"Yum," he deadpans. "Morning breath."

"You're the worst," Hank grumbles, and yanks him back for another kiss.

—-

"I'm so glad you don't actually have a hair helmet," Marc murmurs dreamily against Hank’s mouth. His lips are buzzing, delightfully tingly where Marc sank his teeth in a minute ago, tugging gently.

"What?" Hank asks distractedly. He's more interested in the swollen plushness of Marc’s bottom lip than in the answer, and darts close to kiss it once more.

"Mm," Marc hums, smiling. "Hair helmet. One of the guys gave an interview and there was something about your hair being so perfect, they thought you took it off every night and put it back on in the morning. I'm glad it's not. I like it all messy like this. Just for me."

Hank blinks, then smiles softly, fondly.

"Ah. I see."

Marc grins back, dragging a hand through Hank's hair. It's probably an utterly awful mess right now, but he doesn't care.

"Mmhm."

—-

"What if," Marc says, obnoxiously leaning his hip against the sink and watching Hank piss, even though he _knows_ Hank hates it. "What if we spent all day in bed."

"Stop talking to me right now."

"No, but really," Marc continues, ignoring the way Hank looks up at the ceiling exasperatedly, "what if we did that?"

"Yes, fine, whatever. Could you brush your teeth or something? Stop watching."

"Awesome," Marc says, and has the audacity to fistpump as he reaches for his toothbrush.

"Ugh," Hank says, and flushes the toilet.

—-

"A _wig_ ," Hank bursts out in a garbled shout, startling Marc into missing the toilet bowl entirely.

"Shit," Marc mutters, looking annoyed. Hank enjoys it far more than he probably should. "A what?"

Hank spits toothpaste suds into the sink. "A wig."

"Okay? Were you thinking of getting one?"

"No," Hank says. "A hair helmet. A wig."

"Oh," says Marc, looking thoughtful. "Huh."

—-

Marc is the one who makes breakfast, because of course Marc is the one who makes breakfast. Hank doesn't even try anymore, because Hank trying to cook always ends in a mild calamity, usually involving smoke or minor wounds. Even Marc's limited skills are better than that.

So Marc makes bacon ("Don't look so excited, babe, it's turkey.") and eggs and just-add-water hash browns ("Don't even start, I'm not grating potatoes right now.") while Hank sits at the breakfast bar, head resting on his arms, alternately watching Marc and reading the Times. If he's honest, there's much more watching going on than reading, though he makes sure he's looking down whenever Marc glances his way.

The second time Hank accidentally catches his eye, Marc grins.

"Look at you, reading your paper while I do all the work," he says, tone teasing. He's probably grinning again, but Hank's reading about the economy or the UN or some foreign crisis or something and can't see.

"What a lazy bum," Marc needles airily. "That King nickname's definitely gone to your head. Never lift a finger around here anymore. Lazy, lazy."

"You know," Hank interjects smoothly, as Marc opens his mouth to continue. "That's not what you said last night, älskling."

There's a short silence before Marc bursts out laughing, doubling over at the kitchen counter.

"It wasn't that funny," Hank says, but can't quite keep the pleased grin off his face. "You're going to burn the eggs."

—-

"How are you always so cold?" Hank grumbles as they clamber back into bed, Marc's - once again - frigid hands up under his shirt, resting against Hank's hips, just above his waistband.

"Maybe I'm only cold in comparison to you, hot stuff," Marc replies primly, flopping down all over Hank, trying to position him just how he wants. For once, Hank lets him, even allowing a grope or two to pass.

"You're terrible," says Hank. "I don't know why I keep you around."

Marc's face, as he manhandles Hank's arm over his waist, says that they both know just what a lie that is.

"Whatever, you meatball, you love me."

"I do," Hank says, matter-of fact. He reaches up, touching Marc's cheek, then just below his right eye, and then slides his fingers through his hair. "So very much."

And maybe this, actually, is how Hank loves Marc best: ducking his head to press his face to Hank's neck, where he can feel Marc's lips curving into a smile against his skin. His body covers Hank's, long and broad, close like he's trying to sink into Hank.

"Yeah," Marc murmurs back, laughing quietly when Hank ruffles his hair and kisses his temple. "Same here."


End file.
